Let me Play
by sureaintmebabe
Summary: John misses Sherlock's violin. And he is not the only one. Sherloc POV; First Person; One shot.


**Just a little fic for an idea I had sometime ago.**

**I'm really fond of Sherlock's violin. **

**I hope you like it! (:**

**ooOOooOOoo**

I know classical pieces weren't your cup of tea. One look at you and I could tell that you are the classic rock/popular music type. You were in the army, you are a man of action, contemplation never suited you.

I noticed all this that day at the lab. That's why the violin was the first thing I mentioned. I wanted you and I didn't know why, but I had to have you. (I'm now beginning to understand that maybe I'll never fully comprehend.)

With time, you grew fan of my playing. I noticed it before you, obviously. You used to be on your armchair and you would close your eyes without thinking about it. The first time I saw you there, so open and vulnerable as a result of something I could offer you, it changed me. I refuse to say that I've fallen in love. The idea is ludicrous. (You people are so pedestrian with your babbling about soul mates and such nonsenses.) Something changed. I deduced I could give you something more than the work. It was nice. I do like a compliment, you know that.

From then on, I must confess, I used it to seduce you. Not sexually, in particular. But I've never made it a secret that I wanted to keep you all to myself. You know that, your girlfriends always knew that, Scotland Yard knew. Probably the whole London knows that. (It's actually probable since the homeless must know too.) I've always wanted to keep you close, like we had been from that very first day we stepped into 221B Baker Street together. It's useful, it' not boring, it's convenient. And if it had been inconvenient, I would keep you, anyway.

So, it started as a way to please you, to convince you to stay. It was subtle enough. I started to compose some pieces myself, and you never noticed – again, I could never rely on your power of observation – but almost all my pieces were composed from and for your reactions. And it was something that amused me. (You know how I dislike being bored.) I noticed that some particular harmonies made you so responsive that I knew I was pushing your buttons. And the right ones. The simple action of concentrating on you and composing would warm me so much that sometimes I had to stop to take a deep breath. (And you know how I find breathing boring.) But it was always worth it. Your reactions were always endearing. Even when you dozed off, you would still smile despite yourself.

The first time I used the violin to calm you after a nightmare it wasn't planned. In fact, I was sleeping that night – improbable, I know, but not impossible. I was used to your nightmares, but that one was different. You didn't tell me, but it was about Moriarty and the pool. I could tell.

You scared me. I hate to admit that, but you did scare me that night. I felt a discomfort in my chest, I couldn't think of any other thing to do. I knew you wouldn't like it if I went upstairs and asked you about it. You would think it was out of boredom or curiosity, and I would never admit I was that worried. In thirty seconds I made the decision of playing the violin. I chose one of my own pieces because you had responded well to it that afternoon. I noticed it worked because you stopped pacing in your room. I knew you would spend the night pacing upstairs, because I was in the living room and you wouldn't like to face me after those screams. (I knew then, as I always knew. I like to think that I know more about you than you'd know. Not as much as I would like, but I know quite a lot. You've always been under a mental microscope I have on my mind palace.)

By then, my plan of seducing you with music was going well enough. The best part was that it was left unsaid. I would hate to talk about that. I've just always liked to think that I could do this. I was the one who put you in danger and I was the one who dragged you to chases, but I was also the only one who could soothe you. Sometimes, when I'd hear people saying that I was a freak and you should stay away from me, I had the urge to shout at everybody that I was the one who knew when you had a nightmare, and I was, in fact, the one who would stop anything I was doing to play the violin if you needed me to. But people are idiots, and I know you know better. And you never had to say anything, neither did I.

When Moriarty's grip closed upon us after the trial, your addiction to my violin – as I like to think about it – was one of the first things that crossed my mind. You don't know, and I wouldn't be comfortable admitting this. So, you didn't know when you called me a machine, but I had recorded myself playing some pieces and left the CDS casually around the flat. I knew you would understand. You can be an idiot, but you are not most people. You would know. And you would also know that I already knew. Maybe you would feel angry and avoid the records for sometime. But I knew you would give in sooner or later. Maybe I just really wished I knew. But it was probable that you would and, as a scientist, that was enough for me to try it. I nearly blew the kitchen countless times for much less, after all.

The flat is still bugged by Mycroft. (I'm not sorry about it.) You gave in after a week. I like to focus on the fact that you gave in because you missed me. I try to dismiss the fact that your nightmares were then much more constant. I dismiss the high probability that they were about me. I watched you a few times when I was bored in some hideout around England. Mycroft set up a system for me to watch it on line on a secret link. But what I liked best was to watch the footage of your nights. Watching 221B at night was the only way I had to know the truth about you.

Your ritual became obvious enough. You resisted as you could, because you never liked the idea of being addicted and therefore controlled by anything. So, you resisted. You would wake up and pace into the living room, you would look at the cds, and hover around them, you would push and pull them most of the times. By the look on your face, I could tell that you'd only gave in when the night was particularly difficult. That reaction was so likely you that when I watched the footage, months later, I actually smiled like an idiot looking at the screen. You, Captain, always a fighter.

But after a while, you gave in completely to me. I know that when you stopped resisting and finally faced the fact that you had to listen to the record it was not only the music, it was not only the addiction, but it was me. You were giving in to me – the selfish, posh, daft, sodding git, as you always called me. (Honestly, your manners do fall short.) I know you think like that. You have this habit of thinking with your metaphorical heart. It's unsettling. I don't like it. But it's who you are, and for some reason I like it in you, it suits you.

I know you tried listening on your laptop, first. You took it upstairs, maybe you listened on your headphones, or maybe you just left the laptop open and the music playing beside you on the bed. When I noticed this, I felt disappointed because you wouldn't leave your room, and I wouldn't be able to see you at night anymore. But I knew it was good. I was being helpful, even dead.

Some months after that, you surprised me changing the ritual, and I admit it took me some minutes to understand what you were doing. You actually bought a CD player, a rather big one. Who buys these things these days? Probably just you. I spent nearly fifteen minutes trying to think like you and understand why. Then I got it and I felt my heartbeat speed up.

Well done.

I guess you were finally using your brain.

You were trying to recreate the conditions. You wanted to leave my violin in the living room and listen to it from your room. I surprised myself thinking that you were behaving more like me. I would never think you would stop caring about what other people might think of it. Even I could tell it was a bit not good. Mrs. Hudson could probably hear it, and you did it, nonetheless. I don't know what to make of that. I can't make assumptions, I can only see the facts. And the fact is that you were trying to recreate me.

It's not the ideal foundation for any healthy relationship. But then again, I am dead and spying on you while you do it, so I can hardly criticize you.

Oddly enough, it worked. From then on, I would barely see you on the footage of the nights in 221B. The process was the same. You would have a nightmare, you would go downstairs, you would chose a cd, you would press play, you would go upstairs and you would sleep. I started to watch the footages of the mornings and I could see in your face that your little experiment had worked.

It's probably a bit not good that I felt proud of you, but I did.

Some months later, you rearranged some things around the flat and you changed the angle of the camera. I should probably thank you for that. You gave me a new view from the room and then I could actually see how addicted you were to my violin. My Stradivarius is still on display in the living room, beside the cd player. I felt warm. I felt flushed. You still kept me in the living room. You kept me in the living room much more than you would think at that time. I missed it. At that moment I had to admit that you weren't the only one missing the violin at 3 in the morning. I missed playing for you, composing from your reactions, watching you listening with your eyes closed.

That's how I've got this idea. You are not with me to tell me it's not good, so I'll pretend I don't know. (As if I could pretend such thing.)

By the time I finally come back to London, but can't quite show myself yet, I'm already pulling the strings to put my plan in action. Mycroft tries to dissuade me, of course. I don't listen to him. I never listen to anyone, you know that. The homeless network helps me to wander through the night incognito. I pick the lock of 221B. Outside our flat door, I wait for you to come downstairs to turn on the music and then come back to your room. I know how long it takes for you to fall back asleep. Actually, I remember, but I wait an hour more, because the record is not the same thing as me, and I know that every time you wake up, you have to face the fact that I am, indeed, dead. For you, at least.

There's no need to pick our lock, I still have my key. I would think that an ex-army doctor would be more vigilant, but I do move like a cat sometimes, as you used to say to me. It's easy enough. I have no problems at all breaking in. The first time I do, I'm divided between relief and disappointment at your listlessness. I rather think that your body is so used to the sounds of my presence around the flat that in your sleep, it's still not alarming. Sometimes the facts can suit any hypothesis we'd like. I allow myself this unscientific thought.

So, I sneak in. Not every day, but now and then. (Maybe I do sneak in more times that I want to admit.) It's simple. I pick the lock of the door to the street, and wait outside our door until I'm sure you went back to sleep. I use my key – sometimes it's not even necessary and I smile to myself thinking that you are only sleeping with the door unlocked because I made sure every single direct threat to your life was over.

So, you don't know, but I play for you for quite sometime. You don't notice, but I pause the cd and continue to play the piece you chose to listen to. The first day was the most difficult one. I had to tune the violin. Not that you would notice, but I couldn't agree to play a tuneless instrument. It's easy. You never wake up, and I play for nearly an hour. When I finish, my neck and my hands are in pain, but I feel light. I missed it. I missed it so much.

One night you have a violent nightmare. You scream so loud I can hear from the stairs. I'm watching you from the tiny screen of a phone Mycroft provided me. You look small and weak. I don't like it. I have to play, I have to do something. So, I wait. I don't go away, I wait because I know you will turn on the music and go back to your room. So I listen and wait.

I wait for an hour and a half. I sneak in and pace lightly into the living room. The lights from the streets are enough for me. I tuck my violin under my chin and pause the music. For less than a second there's silence.

And is exactly when I hear you catch your breath.

I'm looking through the window, I'm not actually seeing you, but I know from your breath that you are almost sleep walking. I know you this well.

After some seconds I turn to see your face and you are closer, standing in the middle of the living room. The lights are enough for me to play the violin, but not enough to deduce your expression. I don't know if you think I'm a ghost, I don't know if you've figured it out, I don't know if you think you are dreaming. But even in the shadows your face is warm. At that moment I can swear I _feel_ something that tells me you've always wanted to stay, to be kept by me, with violin or not. It's unsettling.

When I speak, my voice is just a whisper. Not because I wanted it to be this way, but because I am mortified. I'm not used to get caught.

"John," I say. And is the only thing I have to say, the only thing I can say, the only thing I want to, because I couldn't for all this time. And I missed it.

You, the most amazing puzzle I've always had, challenge my deductions one more time.

You cross the distance between us and brush a curl from my forehead. You are so warm. Your voice is not louder than mine.

"I know," you say. And for the first time I know what you meant when you said you hated my face when I knew something you didn't. Because at this moment I don't know. But your face is the warmest thing I've seen for years.

I watch you with attention. You grab the union jack pillow from your armchair and go lay on the sofa.

And then I know.

I play. Because I don't know if you think you're dreaming, or if you think I'm a ghost. I don't know if you're going to hit me or hug me when you know the truth.

But I play to easy your sleep.

Because when you wake up, I know I'll be exactly here.


End file.
